


The Uses of Ash

by cytryne



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (to be fair it’s only partially torture), Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Canon Compliant, Drabble Collection, Gaslighting, Gen, I should really write something fluffy to make up for some of those, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mad scientist Tyelpe lol, Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Multi, Self-Harm, Shock, Solitary Confinement, Sorry Not Sorry, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, alternate universe - everyone dies and no one is happy, and here i am, be proud mom, but I did and now I can't get rid of it, celebrimbor's backbone makes an appearance (figuratively), celebrimbor’s backbone makes an appearance (literally), i promised myself when I wrote the first backbone tag that I’d eventually be able to use the other, i should not be writing tags at 4am, idek wtf to call that, if I hadn't written it I'd love it, if I put pls R&R like old ff.net how many people are going to get annoyed, its better than I’m making it sound I swear, many liberties taken with Song and its uses/effects, my AUs are terrible ideas that will take root in your brain and you'll never escape, nah that's too preteen me, no need to read these in any sort of order, one of them is That AU that is the worst thing I have ever written and yet I want more, the mysterious case of tyelpe's mother name, the three might as well be people, when I started the first I thought it would be a slight AU, writing torture for the tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-01-19 04:39:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 12,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12403269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cytryne/pseuds/cytryne
Summary: He was humble, yet unfailingly proud. The sort of person who would honestly say he thought he was the least of them all, and then turn around and make something that should not exist merely because he wanted to prove he could. A child, thrown into a war, who came out the other side alone and far from unscathed.Drabbles based around Celebrimbor, AU and canon.





	1. Soulmates AU (Or, why I shouldn't be given free range with this ship)

**Author's Note:**

> This one definitely got away from me. I'll probably come back to it at some point because the idea is just too interesting to let sit in a drabble.

When elfings were born, the second most joyous part was to look at their wrists, see the name or blur that would become the name of their intended. Even a lack of one was a blessing, for having the freedom to fall in love with anyone. When Tyelperinquar was born, his family went silent.

.

Curufinwe raged, then cried, then refused to let his precious son out of his sight.  _(But how else was he supposed to react; that name could only mean a hard life and pain bad enough to be a death sentence.)_  Tyelkormo inflamed and comforted him, never not keeping an eye on Tyelpe.  _(And Huan laid next to his crib when they couldn’t, protecting them in his own way.)_ The rest tried desperately to keep up appearances, act like everything was normal and perfect and no one could worry.  _(But on the inside, cracks were forming, laid by worry and increasing rapidly by the rest.)_

.

He rarely left the house until he was old enough to wear a band hiding the name, one wrapped in delicate swirls of gold and silver and twice as wide as necessary. People noticed. People talked. Tyelpe stopped going out again.

.

He just wanted to have a friend. 

.

Curufinwe gave him all the attention and toys he could want, Ambarrussa played with him all they could, Tyelkoromo taught him about the wild parts, every few months they’d visit Arafinwions--but he was lonely. And all the reasons they’d given him over the years didn’t matter to his traitorous feelings. Creating helped soothe the ache. 

.

And then Finwe died, and Curufin  _reacted_. Packed his son up, sent him to the remaining family of his wife. To keep him safe, supposedly. Safe in the depths of Valinor, far away from any chance of ever meeting  _that_  person. Tyelpe disagreed. 

.

His bags went one way, and he dropped out and went back within the day. It wasn’t fair to be separated like that, he thought, from everything and everyone he’d ever known. It was only right to follow them.  _(The world was much scarier than he’d pictured and he didn’t like it, not like this.)_

.

He stayed as close to Findarato as he dared, torn between security and stealth. _(He wouldn’t be left behind.)_  And then he gave up the stealth, crying and so very much the abandoned child he was. Findarato convinced Nolofinwe to let him stay.

. 

The ice felt bad. Like frozen death. And for the first time in years he could see the mark.  _(You have to take it off, they said, or you’ll hurt your arm in this temperature.)_  Other people saw it too. He could tell by who gave him even dirtier looks than normal. Reality was so much worse than any nightmare.  _(He wanted his Atya.)_

.

Beleriand was beautiful, the moon more.

.

Their faces were far too grim, even for fighting a war. And-there was only one with red hair, none waiting beyond his uncles. Something had gone terribly wrong.  _(He had no reason to feel guilty, not when they smiled at seeing him.)_

.

He should, but he couldn’t bring himself to hate his mark. He hated that it was a bad thing, that it he’d probably die early from emotional trauma or torture at the hands of his intended, that no one could look him in the eye after seeing it except in distaste, the being who it meant--but not it itself. It was just a part of him, and he was done trying to hide it. He could-he could find someone else, someday. 

.

Nelyo wouldn’t look at him. He did not blame him.He could just...stay in the forge when Nelyo was around _. (But it hurt)_

.

This  _wasn’t his fault_. 

.

He stayed in the forge, making whatever he thought of. Creations flowed out for years, things to help and hurt and look at and use. Everyone was too busy to look, pleased he was staying occupied. But it was  _lonely_.

.

They were moving to Nargothrond, Curufinwe told him. To do something important. He’d be able to work there, if he felt like it. Spend time with people he used to know. Tyelpe nodded, eyes down, and went back to his own things.

.

It took two days to find the forge and persuade the head of it to let him help. Only basic work, but it was something to do. The other workers didn’t like him, but that was okay. He didn’t like himself either.

.

Nargothrond didn’t fix anything. _(And it felt like Curufinwe didn’t care)_

.

There was a new person in the forge. He smiled at him from where he was standing talking to the rest. Tyelpe blinked in confusion and the ducked his head. The next day, he came up and introduced himself. Tyelpe responded tentatively, soon pulled into an actual conversation for the first time in years. The next day their stations were next to each other.

.

His name was Annatar.

.

Annatar appeared  _everywhere_. Pulling Tyelpe into debates that lasted hours, inviting him to go on a walk outside or get food, gradually bringing him into the society he’d been afraid to enter. Every day was spent together.  _(Was this what it was like to have a friend?)_

.

Annatar didn’t care that he had that name on his wrist. He’d seen it, one day, and smiled at him when Tyelpe expected him to leave. It’s okay, he’d said, you didn’t choose it. They should be able to understand that too. It’s not your fault. I won’t leave you alone too. 

.

His heart fluttered every time Annatar smiled at him, every time he got one of those looks he saved only for him. He smiled more around him, laughed fully, talked more animatedly than ever before. Annatar made him happy in ways he thought could never happen.

.

Annatar didn’t have a name.

.

And when Annatar suggested they work together, make something better than anyone else ever had, Tyelpe agreed wholeheartedly. They could finish this war, fix the things it had destroyed, if only they worked together and made this.  _(And maybe, just maybe, he could make a name for himself that had nothing to do with his family or that name)_

.

It took two years of pulling away from everyone else, of spending most of his time holed up in the forge with Annatar, of bickering with his father over it--but they did it. They made a basic ring, minor and inconsequential in the face of what they meant to do, but it  _worked_. They could do this. 

.

Annatar kissed him after they succeeded.  _(It mattered far more to him than the ring did.)_

.

He started fighting with Curufinwe, arguing over anything and everything. But he had more to go to now. Annatar was always there, and their work always far more important than a failing relationship with a father who wanted power. They had work to do. 

.

He thought he loved him.

.

They did it, they  _finally_  made one of the nine they planned to give to the Edain. Three for each of the Houses, he’d suggested, so that they always have one to use even if a bearer dies. It could only get easier from there.

.

Each ring took only half the time of the previous now, with the rest spent celebrating with Annatar. He had never been so happy in his life, even as he fought constantly and publicly with his father. 

.

He threw his circlet proclaiming him of the line of Feanor at his father’s feet the same day they started making the seven for the dwarves, disavowing himself in front of a crowd even as he worked towards a creation bigger than even Feanor’s. They would fix this, and he would not be seen as a part of its cause.

.

That night, Annatar pushed him gently down onto the bed and kissed his way down his body.

.

They finished the seven only days before the war got bad again. Crying, Annatar kissed him and left. He had to check on his family, he said, and would be back once they were safe. Tyelpe told him he loved him.

.

Annatar never came back.

.

Celebrimbor threw himself into creating the three elven rings. He had nothing else left to do now, no one left to care about. The other rings sat in his workshop, locked into the safest place. But there were flaws in them that he would no longer accept. And he would make these  _perfection_.  _(He wanted Annatar)_

.

The news of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad came back. They were losing the war, and he only had one of the three completed. That wasn’t good enough. He had the power to make this better, if only he could work faster--

.

He woke to fire and screams. Slipping Vilya, the last and greatest of the three, onto his finger, he ran to the workshop to secure the others. It would be disastrous if--

.

A sharp pain, then darkness.

.

The enemy knew of the rings. The enemy had always known, had specifically sent soldiers to Nrgothrond to get them and him. He stared blankly up at the monster laughing at him from his forced kneeling position, unable to understand how or why or what he had brought into the world. And then the lieutenant approached him, stopping in front of him. He reached down and lifted Celebrimbor’s wrist, lips twisting into cruel smile as he looked at his name.  And then his form shrunk, changing into--

.

No.

.

Eru,  _no_.

.

 _Please_.

.

Annatar smiled as he kissed his name on Celebrimbor’s wrist, and Celebrimbor  _crumpled_.

.

He wanted to die.

.

Mairon treated Celebrimbor like a pet, rewarding him with kisses and touches and food when he did something right. He had nothing but what Mairon deigned to give him, and he  _hated_  himself for wanting his attention. Even being forced to sit and watch as Mairon made a cruel, disgusting ring and explained exactly what it would do felt  _good_  in some sick way.

.

It took two weeks to beg Mairon to let him die. He laughed in response, holding Celebrimbor as he cried. And then he hurt him for daring to ask.  _(His life was not his own anymore.)_

.

He finished the ring in front of him, lifting it and crouching down in front of him to explain exactly what this would do. How he would spread the rings like they planned, then control them through it.  _Thanking_  him for his contributions. Celebrimbor bawled as he put the ring on.

.

He didn’t understand why they hadn’t killed him after the ring was done.  _(He wished they had.)_

.

Their forces swept across Beleriand, dominating and destroying as they went. Those they did not feel like crushing were tricked into agreement through the rings. The sole resistance left gathered together to fight them until every last person was dead, but then something changed.

.

Mairon visited him one last time, stroking his hair back and kissing him even as he choked him. Because he loved him, he claimed.


	2. Shock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Alqualonde, Tyelpe struggles.

He stared at the ocean, seeing but not registering it. The drying blood on his hands cracked under the pressure of his grip on the rail, flaking and crumbling off in a grim shower. He paid it no mind. Images repeated in his head until he wanted to scream--Amme, falling over and over again as blood spread across her chest and his own scream rang out, his pilfered blade going through the back of the ner who killed her as he dismissed the child as a threat and turned away for a new target, blood, blood, and more blood, none of it his but all of it his fault. He couldn’t escape it.

She was gone but he still thought she’d appear if only he turned around, that the blood on his hands from his desperate attempts to staunch the bleeding and her body on the shore as they ran would prove to have been only a mirage. She'd been there only hours ago. 

He didn't want to think about the ner.


	3. Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a line and Curufin has crossed it one too many times.

“Then I have no father.” 

He looked up at Curufin, back straight and eyes hard. He knew his father; any sign of weakness or lack of certainty would allow him time to retaliate and change his mind with all his honeyed words again. Curufin stared back, shock written on every fold of his face. For once he’d managed to truly surprise his father and he could only wish he had not. He’d never wanted this. But there was a line  of what was morally acceptable and Curufin had trode across it too many times with no repercussions or words that he would listen to. Celebrimbor would not be ignored any more.

“If you will not desist, I will not remain connected to you, implicitly supporting your actions by existing. I forswear you and your ilk, Curufinwe Atarince, for all that you’ve done and will do."


	4. Reputation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On claiming responsibility for your actions (brought to you by the different ways fandom views celebrimbor)

He could handle being called a monster. It was expected; after all, they were kinslayers. They were right in naming them that, calling them out for their unnecessarily cruel, reprehensible deeds.

He could not handle the pity.

Rumors had made him into some sort of victim because of his age, someone forced into their role by their parents who did not truly deserve the backlash from their actions. And he hated it. He was not proud of his actions--how could he be? But they were his actions and his choices alone. He may have been influenced by his parents, yes, but he had chosen to fight and kill when they did not want him to and he would not have the weight of those actions given to anyone else.

His shame was his shame alone and he would bear it as such.

 


	5. Fascination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wonders what it would be like to kiss him.

He wanted to kiss him. Touch him all over and see his surprise-that little grin he gave when he was particularly pleased with something, the smiles he granted in private and reserved just for him. Surpass his expectations again.

His eyes kept flicking down to his lips when he spoke, following his gestures hungrily and sinking it all in. It took all he had to not stop him in one of those long speeches and just kiss him, to not interrupt him while spending time together in the evenings.

He tried his best to keep it professional; friendly and nothing more. But his touches lingered longer than they ought when passing things. He found himself finding every excuse to touch him, constantly pushing the boundaries of what was acceptable between friends. It burned at him.

If Annatar would just push him away, tell him no when another one of those moments came, he could stop. But Annatar kept encouraging him with little smiles and flashes of emotion, staying close when he could just as easily give suggestions from feet away.

It hardly seemed possible that he could be doing it on purpose, but what other options were there? Annatar was far too clever to not understand exactly what Tyelpe was feeling and know how to dismiss it, yet the other option seemed so impossible to him. Annatar would surely not be showing that kind of interest in him.

He still wanted to kiss him.


	6. Temptations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That requisite torture fic (minus any actual torture)

> Tyelpe’s head jerked up as the door opened, dripping blood down his face again. In swept the monster wearing Annatar’s face and he froze. So far all he had seen were orqui and he had not expected to actually see his once friend until he decided to torture him himself. That he was here now......
> 
> His heart raced. With each step Annatar took he could feel himself tensing, scared and preparing himself for whatever he deigned to do to him. But he was a Feanorian. He could handle anything thrown at him without giving it up, after growing up as the weak point for the leaders of the war. (And studiously ignited that any and all mentions of capture had included strict orders to give them what they want)
> 
> Annatar stopped beside him and he froze, barely breathing. Then, to his utter shock, Annatar sat down beside him.
> 
> “Oh Tyelpe, look what they’ve done to you! I told them to be gentle, and instead those fools just beat you around. That cannot be comfortable, here, let me—“
> 
> He knocked away the hand reaching for the cut on his head out of reflex, completely off balance. Gorthaur was supposed to be cruel and harsh, not, not this. It didn’t make sense. And to come wearing his friend’s face? Of all the tricks he could have played, this was one of the worst possible ones. He didn’t trust himself with him looking and acting like that.
> 
> Annatar sighed sadly-and oh Valar that sounded so real-and withdrew his hand. “You don’t trust me anymore, do you? That is fair, I suppose, after my servants hurt you and forgot to feed you, but I am still your friend, Tyelpe. I even brought you a present.”
> 
> Tyelpe shuddered. The silence stretched, inviting him to say something, but he refused to. Start a game of words and he would get drawn into it; it was only habit now. Silence would be frustrating for him, but Sauron would find it even worse. You can’t get information from someone who won’t talk to you, after all.
> 
> He sighed again, offering Tyelpe a dish he had not previously noticed. It looked delicious, after days of not eating and years of being at war. Far better than anything that could normally be expected for prisoners.
> 
> “Take it, I brought it for you.”
> 
> Tyelpe just started at him again. He made no move to take it or communicate in any way his refusal. Sauron seemed to get it, though.
> 
> “Very well. I hope you’ll think differently next time I come, I would hate to see you starve.”
> 
> And with that he left, just as sudden as he came. Tyelpe’s stomach grumbled rebelliously after him.
> 
> —————
> 
> True to his word, Annatar visited him often, always bringing a food offering. Tyelpe had no idea how long it had been, or seen anyone other than him, or been allowed to rest for more than a hour at a time, but he had managed to stay silent throughout all the forced meetings. It took all he had, but he would persevere. The food got less and less appealing with time, anyway. It was always meat and he had never wanted it to begin with. Eating it would probably make him sick now.
> 
> But something was different this time.
> 
> Annatar sat down directly in front of Celebrimbor and held the dish on his lap, arms loosely hiding it from view. He did not bother speaking, just smiled at him in a way that instantly put Tyelpe on edge and dropped his arms.
> 
> That-that was fruit. Actual fruit. Not the meats and grains he’d been offered before, but fresh, ripe fruit. Even just the sight made his mouth water, but he knew he couldn’t. It was what Sauron wanted. If he bent now, he would be more likely to bend in the future. That was exactly what he needed to avoid. But—-
> 
> He took a piece of fruit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To definitely be continued at some unspecified point in time (that is not going to be four in the morning again istg)


	7. Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solitary confinement brings out all the demons he tries to hide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be warned, this is where the self harm and suicide tws definitely come into effect. A sort-of sequel to the last chapter.

“I’m very disappointed in you, Tyelpe. I had thought you were better than this, and I so regret having to do this to you just to keep you safe. If you would only stop trying to hurt yourself I wouldn’t have to do this.”

Annatar’s hand stroked his hair softly, and Tyelpe moved as far as his new position would allow. His arms, heavily bandaged underneath the shackles, rested awkwardly behind him, attached to the wall by less than a foot of chain. It wasn’t comfortable.

He hadn’t meant to do it, truly. But being alone had been more disorienting than he could have ever imagined. Self loathing set in quickly, followed closely by replaying a of all the worst moments of his life. And before long it had seemed a more and more attractive option, and he just couldn’t resist it any longer once he realized he had started to give in to Sauron.

So he bit his arms hard enough to draw blood. Over and over and over again, until his arms were a mess and he’d lost enough blood to start to pass out. He would’ve succeeded, too, if not for Annatar having the worst timing ever. He’d even smiled at him in victory as his vision blurred and faded, thinking he’d won for once.

And then he woke up.

He couldn’t even die right. Die right, fight right, be a good lord or son. Nothing he ever did ended up working out like he meant to. He should’ve just stayed with his family, maybe his terrible existence would have actually done something right by everyone else by—

Tyelpe blinked, desperately trying to clear the tears forming before Annatar could see them. The thoughts were back. He hadn’t managed to silence them. And now he wouldn’t even be able to move enough to get rid of them by exercise. And Gorthaur would catch onto this, and everything would be even worse.

His breath caught in his throat, and damn him damn him but Annatar was still stroking his hair and it felt good even though he knew it was his enemy doing it and he couldn’t stop himself from leaning into it even though he knew he should. He needed to not, but Tyelpe was so tired and overwhelmed and Annatar was there and making soothing sounds and he couldn’t come up with as many reasons as he should to not accept whatever comfort was offered to him. Tomorrow he could pretend today had never happened and be strong and defiant. Tomorrow.

For now he cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a few more ideas for this group of drabbles. Would you rather have them stay mixed throughout this fic, or moved into their own separate one?


	8. Histories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knew Annatar couldn’t be what he claimed.

He knew, of course, that Annatar had a history he wasn’t sharing. How could he not? Maiar didn’t just randomly decide to wander around Arda and teach, after all. Oh, sure, he’d said it was an idle idea he’d decided to see fulfilled because he was curious, but that clearly wasn’t all. He knew too much, acted too different, for someone who hadn’t seen things. What things, exactly, Celebrimbor couldn’t say—Annatar was very good at pretending to not have ever done anything unusual—but he knew there was something. And, quite honestly, he didn’t care. Everyone had a past these days. Most weren’t kind. Who was he to turn away someone just for refusing to be open about their past, when he himself had many things he refused to mention and even more he wished others could forget? It would be beyond hypocritical. He’d accepted many people with dubious backgrounds before, because they needed somewhere to go that wouldn’t use their past against them. Annatar would be given the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The same themes of the last two chapters are being continued in Wash Away My Colors, my first attempt at an actually structured story.


	9. Love and Tolerance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyelpe loves his father. Celebrimbor does too, but it's different.

He adores his father. He always has.

 

As a child, his father was the center of his world. Every day he spent all the time he could with him; watched him work with an intensity eerily similar to that of Curufin’s own. He was his favorite playmate and teacher, beating his uncles and actual tutors by a wide margin. Anything his father did, he wanted to try.

 

Even when things changed he still adored him. Curufin took all the time he could go spend with him, even though he was ever busier. And even when he couldn’t be there, he left things for Tyelpe to do and show him later. It was perfect.

 

Then Alqualonde happened.

 

His father and uncles were all he had left, and he needed them more than ever. Curufin responded, and he loved him more than ever for keeping him away from it all. His mind was struggling, his body was struggling, but his father stayed and helped and loved him and showed it every day despite the drains of war. He clung to his presence like he was a child again, and breathed.

 

His grandfather died, and his uncle was gone, probably to never return, and he mourned. Curufin mourned too, coping by smothering him and protecting him even more than he was before. It didn't help him as much as before, but he understood why. He needed his father in this new place. And his father needed him so he could stop hurting as much.

 

He adores his father. But his father is different now, and it bothers him.

 

He tries not to care--he knows it's not about him, not really--but he wants to do more. He wants to help, to get out in the world on his own, to be someone now that he's of age. Help so Nelyo never happens again. But his father won't even consider listening. And it hurts. But he understands, mostly.

 

Kano persuades his father to let him bring messages between the brothers. It's something. His father doesn't apologise, but he tells him to be safe, and that he's proud, and they could do something together when he gets back. He smiles, and forgives.

 

His father is his father, and he's not going to forget him just because he's not always there anymore.

 

They move to Nargothrond. He's happy. He makes friends and works and invents and does things, and then goes home at night to his uncle and father. It's wonderful. But his father isn't okay anymore, even less okay than he was before. And it gets worse. Constantly. It's terrifying.

 

He loves his father. But he's not going to stand by and watch this.

 

_(Years later, he gets a letter in the middle of the night from a messenger who had to have traveled as fast as physically possible. And he cries. Because he loves his father still, and now there's no guarantee of ever being able to tell him that again.)_


	10. His Father's Son (Dark AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's a little too similar to Curufin for this to end well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My unofficial title for this is "In Which Celebrimbor is His Father's Son (And Arafinwions are Disproportionately Targeted)". Apparently this is what happens when I get annoyed at SoM characterization ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

His smiles are sharp enough to cut steel. He talks gently, suggests kindness and tolerance instead of war, encourages the weary. Ironic, they say, that the relative most like Finwe should not be called a finwe at all. He’s the “good” Feanorian to them, the kinslayer who constantly tries to make up for being a kinslayer. Some even argue that he shouldn’t be counted as one at all, because he was too young to know what he was doing. They take his actions and erase them and make them all about other people and it makes him  _burn_. But not like fire. He’s like frostbite, dangerous but discounted until it’s too late.

They mistake cold hatred for passivity, for being “better” than his father. He doesn’t see anything wrong with either of them, but he’ll take it. It’ll make things easier. And it does.

Kindness is a weapon as efficient as invention. He uses them both, until he’s consolidated as much power as his father had, once. And then he gets rid of Artanis. But, you see,  _he **had**  to!_  _She was more focused on herself than their people, and hadn’t worked with anyone in decades. And he’d never been able to stand rulers like that, and they were related, after all, so he’d tried to persuade her and then, eventually, was forced to remove her. It was for the city’s good._

He succeeds. He always does. 

He makes friends with the dwarves, opens the Gwaith-i-Mirdain to all who are capable, and Eregion  _thrives_. Ost-in-Edhil is a center of invention, of beauty, of trade; it’s quickly becoming the most important elven city. And if its personable lord has just a little too much power, well, he’d  _never_  taken any of it of his own volition. That was just what the people wanted.

It was  _perfect_.

And then the Maia came.

He’s lovely. Gorgeous, and brilliant, and  _oh so_  perfect, and willing to share  _everything_ –and a trickster. He knows, deep in his bones, that he is a liar. One who enjoys tricks and games until his victims don’t know which way is up. He has a wonderful facade to hide behind, and if he were anything else, even slightly different, he’d be fooled. But he’s not, of course. 

What his game is, why, he doesn’t know yet. But he’s going to find out. And play along, of course. He hasn’t had a proper challenge in  _years_.

It should have been upsetting to find out the Maia was Thauron.

It really doesn’t bother him. He’s found somebody like him, who wants to do the same things as him and has similar ideas for how. And he can do it without ever having to change his public persona.

“If you are discovered,” he says, “I will be taken by utter shock.”

 

 


	11. No Oath Necessary (The Feanorians die too early AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Enemy isn't going to stop just because the Feanorians are dead. Tyelperinquar Curufinwion isn't going to stand back and let them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly this came from me wondering about 1, the varied effects of the Oath and whether or not an Oath for revenge on a specific person would carry the same goal-warping weight, and 2, what exactly is Morgoth's end goal in the war. As you can tell, one of those did not actually make it in XD 
> 
> Just assume Maedhros and Maglor died at some point between the Second and Third Kinslaying.

His uncles are dead. Dead, and their Oath with them. But the Enemy is not.

He spends the first few weeks after the news in a state of shock, overwhelmed by the news of being the only Curufinwion left and that their venture had not even been won. All that death, destruction, despair, for  _nothing_? It hurt.

Then rumors of an offered negotiations surface, and so does he. He goes to Gil-Galad. In private then in public, he warns, and reminds, and then outright  _begs_ , him not to accept. It was another trap, couldn’t he see that? The Enemy would never give up their dominance over Arda. They had no need to offer this. It had to be a trap like the first. A way to remove all the opposition in one swoop. 

GIl-Galad does not listen. His respect for his King withers and dies. 

He goes to the negotiations. They go better and worse than he expects. No one dies. The Lieutenant tells them what they want in exchange for letting them live, and Gil-Galad agrees under threat of having his people destroyed. It’s not . . .  _entirely_  terrible, what they want, but it’s not good. They’ll live. Their rights will probably be destroyed within a few decades, but they’ll be alive. He’s never been so angry in his life.

“And you, Feanor’s heir? Do you have any objections?” The Lieutenant turns to him, and he smiles politely. 

(He hasn’t been called that in  _years_. Not since Valinor.)

I want you to waste away in the Void, he thinks, I hate you and everything you stand for. “I have no Oath,” he says. 

Thauron smiles like he said something funny. 

.

He refuses to go along with this farce. He will not pretend to support something that restricts and abuses his people, turning them into little more than an amusement to be picked off or forced to work as they please. He won’t. He’s a Curufinwion, Oath or no Oath, and he will never bow down before the Vala who murdered and stole his way through his family and his peace and security and chance at happiness.

He didn’t mean to gather an army.

It starts with Celegorm’s old Right Hand. She finds him--bloodstained and weary, but incandescently angry at what has happened--and draws him into a conversation on the treaty in a public space. And then she doesn’t leave.

Day by day, week by week, more people come to find him because of what he says. Both old Feanorian followers and people he’s never met before in his life start staying around him, supporting him when he says something about the situation. He didn’t intend on this, but he’s not going to turn them away. Not when they’re the first glimmer of hope he’s had since the news came. 

Gil-Galad comes to ask what he’s doing, one day. He informs him politely that he was doing absolutely nothing he had to be concerned about, and ignores him. It is true, technically. He has done nothing worth worry from the King. He’s merely encouraged dissent and let others to their own devices.

Their King should be thanking him. 

But he recognises the increased scrutiny of his actions and moves on. He and his closest supporters leave the city with quiet instructions to those staying, and go to the next city. And the next hold. And the next settlement. They cover all the possibly-welcoming elven settlements--Noldor and Sindar alike--and then move on to Edain. Left behind them is a trail of discontent, fostered by talks and insinuations. . .and a suggestion of where they could go, if they found the need. And many did.

He meets them in the South. 

Almost all the surviving Feanorian supporters came. Many Noldor accompanied them, with fewer Sindar and even fewer Edain. But with them came the promise of widespread support, should they manage to reach that far. It was enough. He can work with that.

There’s no formal declaration, this time. No Oath, no promises, not even a dedicated conversation between them. It just starts, and he goes from a silversmith to a General overnight. 

They fight in small forces spread across the continent. None know anything about the activities of the others, and none know the identity of the person they report to, who then reports to one of his subordinates, who reports to him and the others in charge of large sections. And it works. They take loses, but they’ve rid the lower end of the continent of orcs before the Enemy even realises what’s going on.

They’re still losing, it’s still probably a doomed fight, but it emboldens them, and they are determined. He’s never been so proud of a group in his life. 

Security tightens between contacts. They’re encouraged to die before capture--for everybody’s sake--but some slip between the cracks, and it  _hurts_  him to know what’s happening to them. His uncle was never the same after, and the Enemy would be enraged by their lack of information. He knows they know he’s in charge, but they don’t know who’s supporting him. They’d want to.

Slowly, painfully, they creep up the continent. Their loses are immense, but they’re bolstered by the people they release. And then ships from Valinor come.

.

He meets them on the beach. Watches as his great-uncle comes to talk to him. And he’s incandescently  _angry_.

The High King from Valinor tries to talk to him as if he’s a child still, and he snaps.

“Do not act as if you know what has happened, what we have been through,” he says. “Do not. You You were safe, while we were fighting and dying and having to pretend we were fine as our security was ripped away and we were taunted. Do not act as if you are a hero for coming to save us when we are almost gone. You are a coward, and if we were not desperate I would have you gone,  _Arafinwe_.”

The King stops, and he walks away. They don’t interact beyond what is absolutely necessary.

Gil-Galad joins in the frigid silence when they reach him.

.

He fights with his people, a Curufinwion through and through. The days between battles feel eternal now that they’re finally close to the end of this. He doesn’t dare hope for a time after the fighting, not when he’s started this charge. Even if they win, everything he knows and loves is gone and all he has left to him are anger and duty. He’s never going to go back to a normal life.

The last battle is a thing of mayhem. Screams and shouts, heartbeats that last forever and the haze of fighting are all he can remember later. They say he looked like Feanor. He certainty doesn’t feel like Feanor.

But he loathes the Valar just as much as Feanor had. Hates that they appeared from nowhere at the very end and then had the gal to demand things of them as if they were unruly children. He defies them for the sake of it. 

.

Beleriand was not his birthplace, but Beleriand will be his burial ground. As it was for all of them.


	12. Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His favourite phrase

“I’m sorry!” he squeals, struggling away from the hands. “No more tickles!”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, hands grasping desperately at the rail. “I couldn’t save you.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, guilt rising up to choke him. “I-I won’t suggest it again.”

“I’m sorry,” he tells them, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders from this job he didn’t want. “I’m sorry he’s. . .acting like that, he’s very busy. If you have any concerns, I’ll address them.”

“I’m  _sorry_ ,” he snaps, “that you won’t let me do more. I’m not a child anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, firmly. “But I will not be a party to this any longer. Continue this course, and I will no longer call myself your son.”

“I’m sorry,” he admits, tilting his head, “that I came here and caused such division. I will leave.”

“I’m sorry,” he agrees quietly, stiff and not daring to react. “I apologize for being born and doing what I thought I could.”

“I’m sorry!” he cries out, railing against the sky. “I’m so sorry. I  _failed_  you, and now I’m alone.”

“I’m sorry,” he tells their followers, “that I am not your lord. But I will be here, and you are welcome to come.”

“I’m sorry,” he says to his king. “I should have realised this would be a problem. I will make sure they behave from now on.”

“I’m sorry,” he apologises profusely, nodding to the dwarves. “I didn’t mean to intrude, I was just curious about your works. How do you manage to make that work without breaking the metals?”

“I’m sorry,” he interrupts, “But your continued presence here is unnecessary and disruptive. The people come to me first, not you, and are primarily Feanorian. You should leave.”

“I’m sorry,” he smiles at the newcomer. “But I don’t believe I know your name?”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, clutching their wrinkled hand “that I couldn’t have been here sooner. Please, my friend,  _please_ , don’t die. I thought you had longer.”

“I’m sorry,” he frowns, confused. “I’m afraid I don’t understand this part. How would that work?”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, cheeks flushing. “I’ve never done this before.”

“I’m sorry,” he snaps, the words ashes in his mouth. “But your false god can come pry them out of my cold, dead hands.”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out through the block in his throat, all pretense of dignity gone and dead like everything he’d ever loved.

“I’m  _sorry_.”

_I’m  s o r r y_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that 'sorry' stops looking like a word after the fifth one.
> 
> (Honestly, what the hell is this chapter)


	13. Armies and Kings (AU, Curufin lives)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> None of the Feanorions die in the Second Kinslaying. Celebrimbor does not appreciate his choices being questioned, thank you very much.

It’s an important meeting for negotiations over the War. Important enough that each side had sent at least two lords and a gaggle of commanders each with distinguished reputations. It’s remarkably polite for how tense it is, especially as the Feanorians had decided to send the two responsible for the latest Kinslaying. Celebrimbor’s never been so uncomfortable in his life.

He lurks in the back, head bent in a quiet conversation with a fellow commander, as unremarkable as physically possible for him. It works surprisingly well. Until Quenya cuts through the conversation, sharp and loud enough to be heard across the entire space, the air of someone who expects to be obeyed without question.

“Come here, Tyelperinquar.”

He’s an adult. He’s been on his own for decades, he swore to stand alone from his family’s madness, he swore he’d never follow his family again, he swore—and yet he still finds himself listening to the command. Unwillingly, but listening all the same. He hates himself for it. But disobedience has never been simple for him even when it should.

“Now.”

He hesitates—glances at Gil-Galad, the king he chose—and moves. Slips through the barrier of more important commanders and goes to his father and uncle, eyes fixed on the ground as he confirms everything that’s ever been muttered about him. It spares him their expressions, but the silence is so much more intense like this.

“Thank you,” Curufin says, so much more polite than normal. It’d be impressive if not for the audience. He’d always been better at being normal when he was watched, even before things changed.

Curufin makes a small gesture and guides him back a few steps, nearly out of the tent. Behind him comes the sound of Celegorm distracting everyone, but Celebrimbor ignores it to focus only on Curufin. “Atar.”

He drops back into their own, particular, dialect of Quenya out of habit, quietness and word choices ensuring few listening would be capable of understanding. And even if they could, Celegorm glaring would be enough to stop all but the bravest from interrupting.

“Imagine my surprise,” Curufin says, soft and dangerous. He’d never hurt him, never has and never will, but the tone makes Celebrimbor quail regardless. It never spells anything good. “When I found out my prodigal son, supposedly merely a craftsman, was at these meetings at someone else’s side.”

“Atar, I am a commander in—“

“In one of Sirion’s divisions, yes? Where you had access to one of our Silmarilli, something you claim to still acknowledge as ours, and yet refused to help get it? And because of that it is now beyond our reach?”

“I had a duty—“

“Your duty is still, first and foremost, to us, Tyelperinquar. No matter how you try to pretend otherwise. We could have avoided the fighting, and Ambarrussa...”

He flinches back, curling in on himself as if physically hit. “I am not responsible for that.”

“No, not entirely,” Curufin concedes, placing a hand on Tyelperinquar’s face to gently guide his gaze back up. “But it could have been easier. I understand not wanting to be overly involved in the war—if you had been older I would not have brought you—but to leave us just to join the war in a different force? I do not understand, nor do I appreciate it. You could have simply come back.”

“I-I didn’t want a part in the Kinslayings.” Even to his own ears, his excuse sounds feeble. Once a Kinslayer or thrice, would it really have made a difference? He has been one since Alqualonde.

“We would not have forced you, Tyelperinquar. People had to remain behind to keep our lands functioning and safe. You could have been one of them.” He opens his mouth to reply, but Curufin is not done. “And now? The Kinslayings will not happen again, there are no more of our Silmarilli here except for what our enemy has.”

Tyelpe bites his lip. “Ereinion has been good to me.”

“He is not your family, Tyelperinquar. He is not your friend. He wants to use your abilities, that is all. You are powerful and clever. Any King would recognize that.”

He reluctantly nods. It makes sense, though he’d do anything to have it not. Gil-Galad was the first to truly welcome him since he’d left, one of the few who sought him out to do things other than work. He’d even flirted with him. It shouldn’t be true. But....he’d grown up with his father doing the same thing to anyone he found interesting or useful. Seen how people he wanted would be collected and used like they were special then tossed aside when he was done. And that’s not something he wants for himself.

“Good. Now, tell me where your tent is and go make your excuses to that King. I’ll send someone to get anything important.”

Tyelperinquar nods again, hesitant. This is not what he wants. It’s not what he wants, it’s not what he thought would happen, it’s not who he is trying to be—but he’s a Curufinwion. He’s tired of being outcast for that no matter what he does to make up for it. He’s tired of being used. So, maybe, he should just stop trying to be anything else to anyone.


	14. Loss and Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The destruction of the Rings leaves him bereft.

He’s watching when the One is destroyed and Mordor crumbles. Most in the Halls are, but he stays apart from them. It’s not--he’s happy it’s over, really. It needed to be over. The Rings were a blemish on history that needed to be removed. And now they could be. 

But it’s so  _painful_. He poured himself into each and every one of those Rings. He designed them, he made them, he named them. Watching the Nine be collected from the ashes of their masters and handed to Olorin for safekeeping might as well physically hurt him. Those are  _his_  Rings, his head screams,  _their_  Rings. His connection to them is the weakest, but he still knows them better than he knows himself. 

The remnants of the Seven are found in Mordor, and he watches their reclamation by Men who do not understand their worth, their beauty. Who don’t recognise that they were the crowning jewels of his relationship with the dwarves, that they are all that is left of Narvi and Durin and his  _friends_. Who only see them as monstrous and not the glory they were before.

He can feel the Three lose their power, and he  _hates_  it. Would rather remain split between Mandos and the Rings forever than have to feel them slowly shrivel and die to nothing. It’s a pain unlike any of the tortures he’s been through, and he cannot stand it. He wants them  _back_.

The One’s destruction is the most and least complicated. It’s over in an instant, unlike the drawn out struggles of the others, but in that instant he  _feels him_. He hasn’t had a moment when he can’t feel the One since it was made, but he hasn’t felt Annatar like that since he was alive and it leaves him gasping for air. Annatar--Mairon--is  _gone_  from his mind and soul. He can’t even pinpoint where he might have gone or how strong he is now. And it hurts  _so much_.

Others are happy now that it’s definitely over. But he, he mourns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon in this: in order to make the effects of the Song last indefinitely in the Rings, Celebrimbor had to use his own Fea and ended up permanently connected to them. For uses of Song meant to be temporary an elf would not have this problem, but only Ainur are capable of making it permanent without harm.


	15. Names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His mother-name has always been a touchy subject.

“Hmm, Curufinwe Tyelperinquar? What do you say to that?”

Annatar keeps speaking, but Celebrimbor does not hear them. The sound of that--he pushes Annatar away suddenly, turning away. He can’t stand the sound of that  _name_  any longer. Can’t stand it at all, even though he know he ought to for the sake of his own mental state. But damn it all, he trusts Annatar with everything else. He should trust him with this too.

“I don’t-Annatar, I need to tell you something.”

Annatar makes a concerned sound, coming over to touch his arm gently. He loves that about him. No pressure to keep continuing, just space to do so at his own rate.

“I-Only three people still living here know about this. It’s a secret even by Feanorion standards. The only people who ever knew about it were people I met as children, and it’s not-it wasn’t intentional at first, it just--” he cuts himself off, aware of his babbling. “My father-name isn’t Curufinwe. That’s a lie we told everyone in Beleriand.”

He’s dimly aware of Annatar stiffening behind him. But now that he’s started, he just has to get it all out. “It’s Tyelperinquar. But it was easier to let everyone think otherwise after Alqualonde and I-I benefitted from it later and didn’t want to change that. I haven’t heard my mother-name in two centuries and I never want to again.

“She died in Alqualonde. Right in front of me. The last thing she ever said was my name. I killed the person who did it. And then I didn’t talk for a year. The first time someone called me it after I got better I just shut down completely. Wouldn’t talk or interact or anything. So no one ever tried again. It helped. I’d always preferred Tyelpe, so it wasn’t hard to pretend. No one ever questioned it.”

Annatar moves back in front of him, looking up at him in concern. “I...thank you for telling me. Are you alright?”

He nods. He’s not, but he could be.


	16. Made and unmade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death has never seemed so attractive.

He wanted to laugh, the remnants of tears streaming down his cheeks unheeded as he lay there. This would be his death bed, then. Not a battlefield, or a home, or even a war; but lying, undignified, in his own bodily fluids as a result of his own follies. Ah, to see what the House of Feanor had fallen to. Little more than a whore for their enemy. Someone to be used and tossed aside, used and tossed aside, only to have them come crawling back for more. 

 

But he couldn’t stop. No matter how much he hated himself for it, no matter how much it hurt, no matter how used he felt—he kept coming back. And Annatar—Thauron—used it and used it and used it, used him. Until there was only a shell of himself left.

 

But it was intoxicating. Addicting. Impossible to leave once he had entered.

 

And now it had killed him.

 

He didn’t even want to think about what these fluids were or where they had come from, he already knew too much about it. Thauron had been very thorough in explaining while doing, after all. Every action was given details on how it would affect him and how long it would take for that to kill him in a sick parody of their first lessons. He knew exactly how long was left before he bled out.

 

His hands were the only whole parts in his body. Everything else had been painstakingly destroyed, one torturous moment at a time, and then left to rot. An unmaking, Thauron had explained, a complete reversal of what had been done to create him. One of the few ways to destabilize a fea without utterly destroying it. Provided the fea was strong enough, of course, he’d added with a smirk. Your earlier resistance proved that this was possible for you.

 

He’d have cringed if he could have moved, but Thauron didn’t need the physical to tell. Not when his hands were deep inside Tyelpe’s back, severing connections as he pleased.

 

His spine being almost entirely removed—currently sitting next to him attached by a few crucial points—had been the last action Thauron had taken before just leaving him like this. In a way he was glad, glad he could at least have the dignity of dying on his own, but it terrified him more. He didn’t want to end like this.

 

If only he had the ability to move. There were so few important points still connected to his backbone—even fewer than a Adan’s, he’d learned—that if only he could stretch those few inches, he could die on his own terms instead of stewing. Like he should have.

 

Tyelperinquar strained with all his might—and nothing moved. Nothing.

 

And so he just...waited. Waited for the clock to tick down to the time his blood would all drain out. Waited for infection and fevers to set in, even though he wouldn’t be able to feel it anymore. Waited.

 

It felt like it took an age, trapped in his head with only his thoughts and the faraway ceiling for company, before he felt himself slipping away. Felt his fea trying to separate form his hroa, and didn’t resist. At last, he could stop fighting and face his fate with all the dignity of a Curufinwion.

 

The shadows closed in, and he would havesmiled if he could.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Darkness.

 

.

 

A vague confusion.

 

.

 

This wasn’t—

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

He woke up gasping for breath, eyes flying open to fix on Thauron’s.


	17. Names (part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyelperinquar needs to choose a name after denouncing his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly introspection (yes I’m alive and drowning in school)

He needs to choose a name, now. Needs to have a name that doesn’t immediately scream son of Curufin the Crafty. Tyelperinquar is too Quenya to be allowed, much less Curufinwion. But what? What can he introduce himself as, that won’t immediately set people’s minds and hearts against him, but will still be him?

A mother-name was out, immediately. He’d never get over that name.

Tyelpe was a child. It’s still the name that reminds him of himself the most, but it’s not one just anyone can call him. Even as a child, very few people outside family actually called him Tyelpe. No, no Tyelpe. That needed to be reserved for anyone ever willing to get close to him again.

Tyelperinquar was so obviously Quenya he’d be banned within minutes. And it was what he’d always used, working for his family. No new life could come out of Tyelperinquar.

Celebrimbor it would have to be, then. It practically screamed not his name to him, but what else could he use? He refused to step away entirely from the name his family gave him.

He’s never liked going by one name. Names ought to be multiple parts, to him. They show who you are and who you came from and what you will be. But what names do you use, when all of yours have negative connotations?

Fëanorion was not his to claim, for all he’d used it in the past. He was not a son of Fëanor.

Fëanorian had some merit. But he was trying to step away from his family’s influence in public, and all Feanorians were their followers. That could not do anything but add to the mistrust.

Curufinwion.....Curufinwion had too many complexities attached, for all it would remain his favorite. It was the only name that firmly marked him amongst his uncles and father. They were the only Curufinwions, and would remain the only Curufinwions. For all he wanted to leave that number for the way they’d become, he couldn’t not call himself that and be content. It tied him with the only family he’d ever truly known.

But no one trusted a Curufinwion any more.

They’d trust a Curufinion even less. His father had well earned his reputation, and he could not be anything else with that name.

But he had no other Epessës, no titles he could claim as a name. There were no good options left.


	18. No Oaths Necessary (part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment of No Oaths Necessary, in greater detail.

He’s ordered to go to the negotiations under threat of worse war, by both his supposed King and the Enemy’s messengers. It’s decidedly unpleasant to walk into a room on your enemy’s home ground and have everyone know you’re only there because you had no other choice. But he refuses to be cowed by that alone.

 

Tyelperinquar walks into the after the elda who claims to be his king with his head held high and an utter refusal to drop it at any point.

 

Everyone knows he’s not there to actually take part. No one speaking would value or accept his opinions on the terms and conditions of a lack of warfare. But it’s a pretense the Lieutenant absolutely refuses to drop, and his blood burns with every sly comment or look in his direction. It’s made worse with every condition, until the only thing keeping him from visible reactions is sheer pride.

 

He starts tracing patterns on his leg as he is forced to sit there and listen as each expectation gets worse and worse and Gil-Galad does nothing but agree. Coward. Utter fucking coward. How family died fighting this enemy, countless of their people were slaughtered by them, and he does nothing but agree to everything presented to him? Can’t he see the damage they will cause?

 

Almost without him noticing, the shapes become words...and names. Each remembrance makes him angrier, until he doesn’t care about hiding it. Thauron smirks. The next few questions are aimed directly at him and entirely about compliance.

 

(No moving past these areas, no following ****these traditions, no resisting these forces in these actions, no protesting to use of reasonable force, no refusing to give them these things, none of this, none of that, you understand and agree, don’t you, Tyelperinquar?)

 

He bares it with gritted teeth and urges that are more fitting to—were more fitting to his uncles than him. He has even less of a choice than anyone else here. If he doesn’t agree to everything completely, he doesn’t walk out of here. Ever. And he can’t do anything to protect his people and avenge his family if he’s tortured to death.

 

Curufinwe would hate him for that.

 

When the litany finally ends, the Lieutenant doesn’t turn to Gil-Galad but only to him. To the only person of a family sworn to oppose his master. And he calls him, he calls him—that phrase should have died long ago. It’s clearly said to make him twitch and it succeeds.

 

(Fëanor’s heir he may be, but he should not deserve the title.)

 

“...I swore no Oath,” Tyelperinquar Curufinwion finally says. The things he doesn’t say speak louder than even the sheer hatred in his voice, and the Lieutenant smiles at him like he’s a particularly amusing pet.

 

I swore no Oath to not destroy your existence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m thinking of putting a table of contents as a first chapter with type and style of each drabble. Thoughts? (The formatting for this chapter got messed up, will be corrected soon)


	19. Experiments (FA captivity AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrimbor has the worst luck.
> 
>  
> 
> (This was originally meant to be a FA silverfisting au set in Angband when I started it last year, then I picked it up yesterday and I’m honestly not sure where it went)

He really should have expected this. He’d been warned, growing up, not to wander alone. It was dangerous, especially for him. He could fight, yes, but not well enough to defend himself against a larger group of enemies. Orqui were all too common, even in established elven areas. One misstep and he could end up dead.

But he hadn’t had much of a choice when he started on his own. The people who normally accompanied him were his father’s people, and though they offered, he couldn’t make them uproot themselves like that for him. They had families and friends to abandon. That first trip was terrifying. He spent the entire time jumping at shadows, one hand on his dagger as he rested the absolute minimum he could stand.

But, he reflected, he’d gotten overconfident. Joining Gil-Galad’s army as an advisor and occasional runner had ruined his practiced caution. Traveled without as many precautions, only to end up ambushed between one safe area and another.

The orqui hadn’t seemed to notice just who they captured, though, even once they rejoined a main force and shoved him in with elves who did recognize him. And he could only hope it stayed that way.

No matter what he’d said and done, he was still Tyelperinquar Curufinwion, an unfortunately attractive target for the enemy. Not only had he been privy to a wealth of secrets and plans and ideas since the day he was born, he was also a well-known weak spot of his uncles’. He’d been warned of what capture may mean since the day they started this fight. And it wasn’t pleasant.

All he could do now was hope.

 

.

 

His luck held out for two years.

The elves who’d recognized him on the march in and in the bowels of Angband hadn’t said a word upon seeing him, though their looks lingered on him longer than any other of the newer slaves. He’d been fortunate in being brought in during a gap where only low-level commanders were in charge of the new acquisitions and inspections from anyone actually important had been put on hold due to the war. Orqui were their daily supervisors and jailers, and by the time any balrogs had bothered to look at them, he was so grimy and worn that it would take more than a glance to recognize him.

Then the fragile safety he’d had in this hellhole came crashing down.

It began normally enough. He and his other cell mates were woken and forced to run to their workplace for the day, orqui laughing and punishing them for anyone who fell behind or tripped. And then they were chained, given whatever they needed for the day, and set to work to fill a quota, with a “”meal”” in the middle. Today it was repairing a wall, apparently. He and his fellow prisoners worked together for long hours, getting through it solely thanks to mutual encouragement and the anticipation of a meal. But the so-called food never came. Hours after it should have, and nothing was there.

Slowed down by lack of nutrients and exhaustion, Celebrimbor noted footsteps and the quiet murmur of voices just too far to understand—significantly different than those of the orqui—sounding down the hall behind him in the quieter gaps. Another inspection, maybe? They didn’t normally not feed them first, though. Efficiency was important, after all.

An overseer started to head towards him, and he picked up his pace. Lashes were miserable experiences here, and he’d rather miss a conversation than earn them.

The footsteps came closer, the voice finally clear and loud over the sounds of his efforts, and Celebrimbor froze. He’d know that type of voice anywhere, even if it had been centuries since he heard one. And it terrified him. There were more than a few maiar in morgoth’s service, but any one of them would be able to identify him in a heartbeat. They didn’t need to rely on looks like most of his twisted servants, and his family had always had one of the most distinctive presences, enough for even other elves to notice.

A lash to the back knocked him out of his state and he immediately covered his head and leaned against the wall, fully prepared to just wait and ride out this punishment. But it was interrupted after the second lash by the voice.

“This slave . . . where were they picked up?” He could feel their eyes on him, even as they questioned the overseer. Their voice washed over him, cool and calculating. He didn’t dare move. Any attention from a Maia was bad attention here.

“‘Side Nargothrond, milord. All this group was.”

“Turn around, slave,” they ordered sharply. He hesitated, but did so, roughly shoving down his presence as much as he dared before carefully looking at them. They were . . . beautiful, to put it simply. Long reddish hair framed a face and body in the style of the Eldar. And—though he dared not look them in the eyes before being positively identified—their eyes matched their hair, with unfathomable deep, dark centers. If not for an air of malice so strong he could nearly smell it, he’d almost think they were trustworthy.

Long, pale fingers—curiously calloused, for a Maia—reached out and grasped his chin, lifting his head up and tilting it from side to side. Celebrimbor knew, with a chilling certainty, that the Maia recognized him the moment their grip tightened.

“Overseer,” they said, not once looking away from Celebrimbor, “Who captured them? When?”

“Cap’n Gorzu, Lieutenant, ‘bout two years ago.”

Lieutenant. That was . . . he was. . . Sauron. Oh Eru.

“Inform him I expect him in the throne room within the hour.” With that, his focus turned back to Celebrimbor, and he smiled. The sight sent shivers down Celebrimbor’s spine and he reflexively loosened his grip on his presence as every fiber of his being screamed that there was a greater predator ready to destroy him.

“Well, well, well, look who we have here,” he gloated softly, “Tyelperinquar Curufinwion. I suppose this explains why no one could find any trace of you. Your utter disappearance sent more than one army into such a frenzy, it was rather amusing.”

Sauron let go of his chin but Celebrimbor kept his head high. He looked Sauron up and down and, very deliberately, spat in his face. Captivity hadn’t broken his spirit; as horrible as this might become now that they knew, he wouldn’t give up. Not ever.

He felt a fleeting moment of pleasure at the distaste on Sauron’s face, before the Maia gripped his arm and shoved him forward, breaking his chain with a wave of his hand. “Move. My master is going to have . . . uses for you.”

 

.

 

When he’d been promised “uses”, he really didn’t expect this. He’d thought more . . . torture, less . . . whatever this counted as. Oh sure, there’d been some of the requisite interrogation and torture, but, well, he was the scion of a House where torture was a legitimate possibility. He’d been told countless times that information was less important than his life. It took maybe ten minutes for him to decide to give them whatever information they wanted. Not that most of it would be useful anymore.

But even with that, they’d been . . . curiously careful not to injure him too much. Nothing even vaguely approaching what Maedhros had been through. It made little sense.

And then, still shuddering and shellshocked from his encounter with Morgoth, they’d dumped him here. Celebrimbor shook his ankle slightly, testing the strength of this new chain, and behind him an extremely bored Lieutenant spoke up.

“Don’t think about it.”

He ignored him. The chain led from his ankle to a sturdy bar directly beside a forge. There was equipment within easy reach of the chain, but all actual tools and materials were decidedly out of reach. And he’d been informed, smugly, that this chain was one designed originally for use by Balrogs, and therefore unlikely to melt with anything he could create.

He took that as a challenge, personally.

Sauron moved around behind him but he sat down instead of looking, curious as to what material the chain was made of. It was silvery, with a blue undertone and a slightly ridiculous shine. Absolutely no parts of it had been dulled from use, or even gotten dirty from rubbing against the ground. That was . . .

A single bar of gold was dropped on his other ankle and he cursed. Sauron stood over him, looking supremely unimpressed with his contemplations. “You do understand what you’re still alive to do, correct? Then start.”

Celebrimbor sighed but stood up, moving to melt the gold. How, and when, he was supposed to succeed in this, he had no clue. Elves weren’t supposed to be able to sense materials, but he was a Noldo. A Noldo from the House of Feanor no less. His limits weren’t other people’s limits.

How the Enemy had learned this, he had no clue, but his House had always been . . . prone to feeling anything high-energy and certain types of gemstones, when they reached out with osanwe. They’d never been able to figure out why. This was why they were such good smiths, and most likely a factor in the Silmarils’ creation. He’d been theorizing on the potentials of it since the day he moved past basic smithing.

If this wasn’t forced, he’d be thrilled to get a chance to try.

The gold reached melting point and Celebrimbor closed his eyes, reaching out with his fëa like he would with a family member. It writhed next to his mind, almost expanding at the contact. Not at all like the melding or gentle brushes of thoughts he got from different stages of osanwe with other Eldar. It definitely wasn’t alive. And yet, even before trying to manipulate it, he could feel the gold’s willingness to obey his requests. The question was if it would follow them once he let go. Osanwe wasn’t like Song, it couldn’t create in even the limited ways permitted by elven Song. It could only expand the possibilities already inherent.

Carefully, he impressed upon it the most basic plan he could think of that might prove it a success or failure. To glow when fed power. The orders he based off of their smithing techniques for swords that glowed near orcs, only adapted to be through the mind and body’s signals. The gold immediately started shining, feeding off its natural heat. He pIcked it up with tongs and poured it into several basic ring molds, and carefully set it back down next to the forge.

Then Celebrimbor collapsed.

His limbs ached, his body shook uncontrollably from exhaustion and lack of nutrients, and he had a nasty suspicion that process took far longer than it felt. Osanwe was hard on the body at the best of times. He’d communicated with an inanimate object. Distantly, he noted this could actually kill him if he weren’t careful with power expenses.

The moment the gold cooled completely, Sauron walked around him to dump the rings on his hand. He inspected the consistency, then crouched next to Celebrimbor. “Put one on.”

Celebrimbor stared at him like he was insane. Then, slowly, he dragged one of his arms from under his body and picked up one of the rings. Putting it on, he immediately felt it latch onto his dwindling energy reserves.

The ring glowed brilliantly, brighter than any star, and immediately went out.

Celebrimbor fainted.

 

.

 

The Enemy deemed it a failure, but kept trying. Each day he was given different materials, each day he discovered something new about the interactions of power and precious metals, and each day he failed.

Jewels accepted both osanwe and his limited Song capabilities best, but each type of jewel would only accept certain commands and they tended to fade over time. The size of the chips and the number of faces completely changed their willingness to obey. The only way to actually communicate with them to set the osanwe was to be doing it while shaping them, which meant it took more time than they were willing to grant him on one test.

Celebrimbor took care to memorize what he knew of them. Just in case he ever got out. Perhaps with the help of a Maia, or even more of his own power . . .

Silver was a wonderful conductor that managed to both contain and extend the usefulness of any amount of energy, but only for osanwe. Adding any amount of Song to silver made it explode. They took care to remove any silver out of his reach before he’d even woken up from the backlash.

He memorized that too.

Gold . . . it made a good universal conductor for Song and osanwe, but it took an extreme of power to actually fuel. Even if he managed to persuade one of the Maiar to help, he doubted any incarnates could wear a Power made of gold without being sucked dry of energy within days. It demanded more than an incarnate could conceivably provide. Maybe if it had two power sources, or he figured out feedback loops between multiple batches and types . . .

It had possibilities. Many possibilities.

Sauron had spent the majority of the time watching him, but towards the end he’d started suggesting possibilities. At one point he even moved Celebrimbor away from the fire after he’d collapsed again. It was almost nice, in a way. He’d always preferred working with other smiths nearby. Even evil ones.

But since he’d ultimately failed what they wanted from him, he wondered what they’d do to him now. Death? An attempted ransom? Simply using him for mocking his family? Whatever it was, he hoped it’d be short.

Sauron entered, and he looked up to a sharp order to follow him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And centuries later, after the war of wrath, Celebrimbor meets a curiously familiar stranger with an intense interest in his private research....


	20. Ithildin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrimbor has a breakthrough. Narvi is amused

“No, no, Narvi!” Celebrimbor exclaimed, waving chalk at him as the idea came. The dwarf grunted at him, well accustomed to this sort of excitement. Celebrimbor had a bad tendency of getting excited then remembering everyone else couldn’t follow his thoughts mentally.

 

“We were talking about how we wanted the gates invisible but for certain signs, right? Accessible to anyone, but only if they either knew the general area or were invited? Your people are amazing at hidden doors and just naturally knowing where they might be in stone, but for us more directionally-challenged races, we can use something I’d started to create earlier but abandoned!”

 

Narvi raised a bushy eyebrow. “Something you’d given up on, eh? Did it work?”

 

Celebrimbor hesitated. “Well . . . not like I’d wanted. But the basic idea is the same, and we wouldn’t need it to actually do anything, per say. Just exist and not run out of power halfway through. Once it’s started the process is . . . almost naturally automatic. It’d require elves of a certain level of power to make any of, though as far as I know it’ll last forever depending on the requirements.”

 

”Tell me the actual idea first,” Narvi suggested, not even trying to hide his amusement. “The politics once we know it works.”

 

“I was messing around with a. . . “ Celebrimbor bit his lip, not sure what the correct way to phrase this was. He hadn’t exactly told anyone what he’d been trying to do. No one would’ve let anyone related to Fëanor risk creating more overly powerful gems because he’d been curious. “. . . family technique a few centuries ago and accidentally learned how to make metal glow as long as it’s in contact with an energy source. Even the sun or the moon. Different types of metals make different effects, and they can even do basic things like unlock at a phrase.”

 

Eyeing him curiously, the dwarf didn’t comment on his hesitation. “You think we could use this in the Doors.”

 

“Even if it’s hidden, it’s still an entrance to Khazad-dum. It can’t just be plain and rely on guards alone.”

 

Narvi snorted. “No, and you might’ve just solved our major problem with them. Are you certain it’d work?”

 

Nodding, Celebrimbor grabbed paper and ink instead of the chalk. “I know it works well with silver, but I’d like to try mithril if we can get some. Most things hold better on mithril, and it is supposed to be a kingly gift. We could engrave the Doors like . . . this—“ he finished a swoop and turned the paper toward Narvi. “—and pour the metal in. It should glow every time the moon hits it.”

 

“I’ll let you figure it out while I finish the mechanics, then.” Narvi clapped Celebrimbor’s shoulder and turned to go back to his part of their project, but glanced back at the drawing. “Just . . . nothing too elvish.”

 

The Noldo only nodded, already amending his sketch. “Just enough to mark this as a collaboration, I know.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I finally added Narvi. I’m as happy as you are.


End file.
